


there's droplets of blood on your collarbone

by TheOccasionalSquirrel



Series: Immortals with a whole lot of issues, the least of all being their mortal lovers [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst, Everybody thinks Lance is hot, F/F, F/M, Feelings with slight plot, Friends to Lovers, Lance (Voltron) Angst, Lance (Voltron) is not the brightest, Lance is locked in a coffin by Unkown Person at the start, Lotor (Voltron) Angst, M/M, Oblivious Lance (Voltron), Strangers to Lovers, Vampire Allura (Voltron), Vampire Lotor (Voltron), Vampires, but everything is not as it seems, lotor VOWS tm to free him
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:41:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23569264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheOccasionalSquirrel/pseuds/TheOccasionalSquirrel
Summary: It starts as a present, something he can love, an ember, to keep him warm, and a forest fire, to tear his world apart.Vampires, it's not only blood they crave, and poor Lance doesn't know what he's getting into.
Relationships: Allura/Romelle (Voltron), Brief Allura/Lance (Voltron), Lance/Lotor (Voltron)
Series: Immortals with a whole lot of issues, the least of all being their mortal lovers [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1696504
Comments: 64
Kudos: 90





	1. prologue

There were few things on Allura he admired. He’d known her for forty years, and after knowing a person for so long, you either hated or adored them. You had no other choice.  _ Lotor  _ had no other choice. 

Perhaps he’d been born hungry, but Allura was born ravenous. A person who’d swallowed a piece of night and had to live the rest of her life trying to fill the hole it created in her. A depthless void, darkness that pulled and consumed. It’s how she found her wife every time. The darkness in her attracted to the only thing that might vanquish it- the bright light of a soulmate’s love. 

Lotor didn’t believe in soulmates.

Or maybe he did. Maybe the boy locked in the coffin was his soulmate. Maybe the boy whose heart he ripped out of truly loved him, and it wasn’t the cynical love Allura always ascribed to mortals. Maybe the boy whose love was a pesky weed in Lotor’s perfectly manicured garden of a heart was his soulmate. Maybe the boy was just what Lotor needed. What Lotor had wanted all along. Someone bloody and volatile and so loving it was  _ painful _ .

Maybe, maybe it wasn’t a thing of believing in soulmates or not. Maybe it was simply the fact that people like Lotor didn’t get soulmates. He didn’t deserve the kind of love that brightened the light in his queen’s eyes. He didn’t deserve the kind of love that burned in Lance’s eyes. He was a small container of air, and they were all so bright with fire. 

Lotor feared soulmates might consume him. Love always seemed so all-encompassing- and Lotor was small. He was flammable. 

Lotor didn’t  _ want _ a soulmate. Perhaps that was it. 

It was easier to lock his feelings in a coffin for a decade. It was easier to hide them in a crypt for a century. It was easier to give them a wild rose and let them rest easy in a tower for an eternity. It wasn’t fair. Not to his heart, not to his lovers. But his heart was a garden and love was a weed he couldn’t tolerate. 

_ Be careful with that one love, _ _  
_ _ He will do what it takes to survive _

Allura sighed. He hated her sigh. She didn’t need to breathe, all her actions were deliberate. The rise and fall of her chest. Every breath, every blink, even something as pure as a tear, she did deliberately. Sometimes he wondered if she could even feel or if all her actions were purely taught. 

But then he remembered she could still love, she could still grieve. And he didn’t envy her capacity for emotions in the least. Lotor couldn’t keep a lover without them getting killed or worse- locked away, but Allura was stuck outside the cycle of reincarnation. Eternally locked out of the afterlife, with her only comfort the woman she’d fallen in love with millennia ago returning to her.

Lotor scoffed. And then he felt like a hypocrite. Breathing was a force of habit.

“You’re leaving tomorrow, I presume?” Allura’s questions were never actually questions. They were demands, usually, requests if she were being gentle. Orders, if she was tired. 

Lotor nodded, before he realized that, in the unlit staircase, his queen couldn’t see him. A distant part of him knew she could sense it. Sense his nod, sense the droplets of blood on his collarbone. Just like  _ he _ could sense every stair as they descended, the weight of a coffin on both their shoulders. Vampires were strong, yes, but death was a heavy burden to carry nonetheless. And his lover needs a tall coffin.

“Yes, before first light.” The notion of a first light was ridiculous to him, but despite their poetry, humanity had always favored sunlight over the moon and stars.

And perhaps innerly scoffing at humanity’s hypocrisy was his own way of coping. He didn’t want to leave. He didn’t want to play diplomat in a war he had nothing to do with. A war even Allura didn’t have anything to do with. He wanted to throw this coffin to the ground and steal his lover away. He wanted to run away somewhere deep inside a foreign forest where no one could find him. 

But he’d traded his freedom away for immortality. He had no choice. In their world of blood and shadows, everyone had a role to play. Kings and queens, swords and shields, princes and paupers and no space for lovers. 

No, that wasn’t quite right. There was space for lovers. There was space the width of a spider’s leg in a tall tower. There was space the length of a blink in a hidden crypt. There was space the circumference of a greek huntress in the cycle of reincarnation. There was space the height of a boy, in a coffin, on Lotor’s shoulders.

And Lotor, despite his hunger, fit quite nicely into the role of a diplomat. 

“I will make sure this war ends,” he promised.  _ ‘And I  _ will _ be back for you, Lance.’ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have no explanations other than lotor effed up
> 
> i always understood those florence + the machine lyrics as "be careful of the curse that falls on your lovers" and wrote something accordingly. with every passing day the plot surrounding this gets more complicated in my head. this started as klance. help me. freE ME


	2. love is a gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He loved her. And she loved him. And in such bliss does devastation grow"  
> \- Roshani Chokshi, "The Star-touched Queen"

The truth falls like a piece of paper, but to Lance it feels like a slap nonetheless.

He should have seen this coming. 

He should have known better.

But now it’s too late. 

Too late for regret, too late for disappointment. 

Too late for the searing blade of anger, too late for the cold sweat of betrayal. 

The river of mourning flows red with blood, and in its depths, he drowns. 

It started with a sigh on a foggy night. 

He was a low rank guard, then. The kind who got the worst assignments, and then got put on the night shift. 

The evening was slow. The little white orb of the full moon barely shining through the fog, and the sun something of a long forgotten memory.

Until  _ she _ arrived.

And he didn’t know this at the time, but  _ she  _ was a memory. A shooting star, a ripple in water, the quiet echo of a scream long silenced. 

_ That  _ is what she was. What she  _ is _ .

But that night, she seemed like an ordinary girl. And he was an ordinary guard. 

And like any well-raised boy, when she fell on the pavement, he ran to catch her.

  
  
  


Lance was never quite sure of what he was doing. It came with the fact that he was one of many siblings, and one of many sons, and one of many boys who wanted the title of knighthood. 

But in small instances, he  _ was  _ sure of what to do. 

One of these instances was running and crouching at the  _ exact _ moment to make sure the lady before him didn’t fall and hurt herself. Well, hurt herself further. 

“Miss?” He tried, gently shaking her shoulders as he raised her into a sitting position. “Are you alright?” He tried again, but to no avail, she was out cold. At once, the smell of strong alcohol and lavender hit him. 

His eyes widened and he looked around to make sure it wasn’t coming from something else. 

It wasn’t uncommon for women to drink, no. That is not what shocked him. It was that a lady- obviously a lady, considering the fine material of her dress and the styling of her hair- was drunk and alone. His mind ran through the countless dangers of the town at night- it was dangerous for anyone and everyone. A person could disappear, and people would forget quicker than the count of horses in the King’s procession. The curse of big towns was their forgetfulness. 

Lance sighed, wracking his brain for a way to help the lady.

A solution didn’t come to him. Rather, it fell from her neck. 

He picked it up- it was a necklace and, even in the dim light, Lance could recognize the Altean crest upon it. He had to refrain himself from looking at the lady’s neckline- how had he not noticed it before?

Lance didn’t know many nobles, but he knew their crests and seals. That, and it didn’t take a guards education to recognize precious gems laid out in gold. 

A red lily- juniberry, as they called it- the proud marking of the Altean family. 

He opted out of putting it back around her neck and put it in his pocket instead. With a sigh, he picked her up properly in a bridal carry. The Altean manor was a long way from his post.

  
  
  
  
  


Somewhere on the way to the lady’s residence- Lance still didn’t know her name- he had woken her up to get her on his horse, and then she’d woken herself up to empty her stomach of whatever she’d had for dinner. Multiple times. 

As they nearer the gates he heard her yawn, but before he could utter even a word, dawn fell on him. The lady’s gaze reached into his soul and took something. Something. Something Lance can’t quite remember anymore. He looked at her, she smiled at him, her blue eyes like nothing he’d ever seen before.

_ What have you taken, dawn-eyed girl? What did you steal? Before the sun could witness, what did my soul reveal? _

And Lance, softer than a person ought to be, could have stayed like that forever. 

Her hand on his heart, his arm around her waist. His eyes on her, her eyes on his soul.

But dawn opened its bloody red eye to look at them, and the spell broke.

“Go right through the servant’s entrance if you love me, my sweet prince,” she giggled and Lance looked at her, incredulous. “And if you do not love me,” her smile fell down into a pout, “use the servant’s entrance anyway.” 

She giggled as if she’d said something funny. 

“Come on, then,” she smiled. “You look like the kind that prefers his head  _ on  _ his shoulders.”

Lance hurried on through the servant’s entrance.    
  


The servant’s entrance was old, but the lady slipped off his horse and walked through it as if it were a palace, anyway. She’d sobered up in the hour it took them to reach her home, despite her odd behaviour, she carried herself with grace and dignity to the door where she stopped, turned, and looked at Lance with those dawn coloured eyes. 

“Thank you, I will send payment to compensate for your dirtied uniform and shoes. What did you say your name was?”

And maybe it was because he hadn’t slept. Or because he’d spent the last hour doing his best to not topple over with a barely conscious girl on his saddle. Or because she was pretty and asked for his name. But he said: “My name is Lance, my lady. Of the Serrano family. And helping people is my duty.” He bowed his head, because he did mean it. He took pride in upholding his family’s values. “There is no need to repay me.”

“Are you sure?” It was her turn to be confused. “Surely there is  _ something  _ you want.”

To want was to be human. And there was plenty Lance wanted, plenty Lance yearned for. Better boots and knighthood, new arrows and love, a better bed and a family of his own. But he wanted to create these for himself. To earn love, to earn a better bed with his own hard work. 

But there were only so many things he could get on his own.

“Your name then, my lady. And there is nothing else I should want,” he said, simply. Lance was a dreamer, but now the sun was up.

The lady smiled, the curl of her lips lovelier than any flower. “Allura,” she said. “My name is Allura.”

  
  
  


Hair white as snow, skin dark as ebony, lips red as blood. 

Her name- as fitting as her title. As fitted to her as her dress.

Oh, Allura, your beauty is as fatal as a fast current. 

It is one’s own fault when one drowns in it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got nothing else to say other than they're both disaster bisexuals but for different reasons.


	3. pocket thief

The next morning greeted him not with sunlight, but with a headache. 

It was not even morning, he realized as he counted the bell tolls, it was well past noon. And if the church bells weren’t enough indication that he’d slept through breakfast, his stomach growling certainly was.

With a groan he rolled on his side and felt something poke at his thigh. Realization ripped off the mantle of sleep and he was wide awake. He shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled out a necklace, its golden pendant mocking him as it swung from side to side. Panic seized him as he scrambled out of his bed and put on fresh clothes- all the while gripping the pendant in his hand. He cursed himself for being so dumb, and then cursed the lady for being so beautiful, and then he cursed himself again. It was not Allura’s fault Lance was weak to a pretty face.

He rushed out of his room at the boarding house- it was old and ratty and all Lance could afford on a guard’s payment- and into the stables. The stablehand protested and shouted something along the lines of “Hastiness is the devil’s work!” but Lance had already gotten his horse and was off. 

A part of him looked forward to seeing the Duchess again. A bigger part of him hoped she wouldn’t have him imprisoned for his crimes. Now, the fact of the matter was that Lance hadn’t  _ really _ committed a crime. He was just a boy absolutely smitten with a girl whose beauty was so distracting he forgot to return her necklace. A  _ girl,  _ who just so happened to be the Duchess of Altea. A girl he was supposed to address with “Your grace” and a bow. A girl he was never even supposed to talk to, really. Duchess Allura was too powerful- her power could lift him high or let him fall, and he wasn’t willing to take that kind of risk. 

It wasn’t worth it. Feelings rarely were. He would return the necklace and do his best to make sure he never saw the duchess again. She knew his name, oh God, she knew his name. Panic seized him and it suddenly became difficult to breathe. He’d stolen a necklace. He’d stolen a necklace and he’d be hung for his crimes and they would throw his body into the river and never let his parents bury him. 

A carriage passed him and the sound broke him from his trance. He was on the forest path leading to the manor already. 

Was it too late to turn back?

Just then he heard a whistle and he turned. He saw that the carriage had stopped and a hand from one of the windows motioned for him to come closer. 

He gulped. 

He imagined that’s how they would motion for him to approach the executioner’s block. The devil with his taloned fingers beckoning him closer, closer. Welcoming him into his arms, saying:  _ “I’m proud of your sins, Lance. You are the worst of the worst and you’ve deserved a place on my lap in hell”  _ and then snapping his neck. 

But instead of the devil, Duchess Allura peaked her head out of the carriage and smiled. She smiled  _ at him _ .

“Headed somewhere, Sir Lance?” 

And he knew, of course, that wherever she went he would follow. Because he was a guard, and a boy, and beautiful Allura was the Duchess. And when the Duchess called, you answered. 

The curve of her lips must have been a spell, because when she spoke he forgot himself. He forgot the necklace still in his pocket, he forgot his name and his title. The only thing that mattered were her words as she rambled about the lords in town and the countless citizen complaints. 

Her least favorite lord, it turned out, was Lord Sendak. “I’d strip him of his title if I could, but the bastard’s too rich and has too much power. The easiest way would be to behead him,” and at this, he chuckled. Most people shared the sentiment, and he was glad the duchess understood. She was, after all, headed to her townhouse for a couple of days to personally take care of a mess Lord Sendak had made. 

“Say, sir Lance, where are you stationed?” 

Perhaps the most wonderful thing in the world was capturing the interest of a beautiful girl. Seconded only by her listening to you. 

“Near the gates, your grace. Though I’m often stationed anywhere I’m needed,” he smiled and she gave a thoughtful hum. He was about to say something else, add that he didn’t mind taking the evening shifts, that he didn’t mind covering for his other guard friends, that he always hoped to prove himself with hard work. He wanted to be a knight, and despite the fact that he wasn’t rich or born into a powerful family, he wouldn’t give up on his dreams. To be able to protect people was an honor. 

She seemed to want to say something, but got interrupted by the carriage stopping and changed her mind. So lovely was her face and her expressions. “I have some things to take care of, but I do hope to see you at the festival this evening, sir Lance,” she winked and slipped out of the carriage. 

By the time he exited, the Duchess was nowhere to be seen. His heart beat thunderously in his chest, his cheeks warmed. He must have looked like a fool standing in town square like that. Like a love stricken fool indeed.


	4. it’s his funeral, it’s his wedding day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Was there ever even a festival that wasn’t Allura’s presence?

Lance only realized he forgot to give the duchess her necklace back after she was gone. What he also realized as the servant handed him the reins of his horse, was that he didn’t remember climbing  _ into _ the carriage with Allura. 

He shook his head and inwardly scolded himself, this kind of absent-mindedness could cost him his head. Or even worse, his horse. As he headed back to the boarding house, he promised himself he wouldn’t make the same mistake again. 

That evening he changed into his guard’s uniform again, for Sir Holt’s wife had gone into labor and it would have been unfair to keep him from his family. Lance  _ had _ hoped to talk to the duchess this evening, but that could wait. He could post her the necklace too, after all. 

Though, what he thought would be an evening of helping drunks and children find their way home became an evening he’d truly see the stars for the first time. Stars that didn’t rest in the sky, but instead soared inside his chest as Allura,  _ the _ Duchess, pressed a kiss to his lips.

Well, not before she’d danced with him in the middle of the square where everyone could see, plainly, who the Duchess favored. Not before she’d smiled at him so beautifully, he would have lost his footing had she not been so sure of a dancer.

And he forgot himself over and over again. There was no music other than the sound of Allura’s lilting laughter, there was no one at the festival besides the two of them. And there was no light, or was there? Was there ever even a festival that wasn’t Allura’s presence?

The next morning he woke up with a headache and a summons to his headguard. With every step he took to his office his heart beat faster, he couldn’t remember much of what had happened last night other than Allura kissing him senseless, and he could still feel the outline of her necklace in his pocket.

A part of him wondered if it was even her necklace, but the Altean crest on it was undeniable. Maybe she didn’t care about losing valuable things, but.. That wouldn’t make sense. He couldn’t imagine pretty Allura being so vain.

Not with the way she talked about her people’s problems, as if they were her own too. Not with the way she danced with him, with her people, during the festival as if she were one of them. 

Allura’s smile was bright and beautiful in his mind, and he could remember her grinning, laughing in joy.

Or could he? 

His head hurt too bad every time he tried to remember it, and his neck ached as if it weighed a thousand pounds. He put his hand to ease the pain, running his fingers past the two moles that marked him there among his freckles.

“Serrano? Come in.” 

It’s his funeral, it’s his wedding day, it’s both. The Head of guard shows him a letter with the purple wax seal broken, and tells him he’s been handpicked to act as the Duchesses guards during her stay in town. The Head of guard tells him not to worry, it’s only a week, but Lance is a fool and Lance is a boy and he sees nothing other than opportunity to see the girl that kissed him again. 

He takes the job offer and thanks the Head of guards and runs out of his office before he can hear the ‘Be careful’ he really should have heeded.

If he knew then what he knew now, would he have taken the offer?

The ball starts to roll not with a push, but with the gentle pressure of quill to paper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in the words of my good friend nat, "this dumb fucking gay oh my god"


	5. love is an ember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> to fall in love is a messy afair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so sorry this took so long

The job, if you could call it that, goes swimmingly. During the day, he follows the Duchess around as a guard, and in the evening, he pours her a drink, she sits in his lap, and they kiss well into the night. 

A feeling of anxiety follows him through the week. He thinks maybe, it comes with the position. He’s guarding the Duchess, he’s guarding the girl he’s falling in love with—how could he  _ not _ be anxious. 

Allura’s presence was overwhelming though, most times when he was with her he forgot to worry. 

Every time she was near—and she was always awfully near now that he worked for her—he felt like his head was pushed under water. Rationality escaped while his survival instinct stayed to fight—and fight alone. But he didn’t know what he was fighting. 

Lance was a complicated boy, and even more complicated was his own mind to him. Allura was breathtakingly beautiful, and just like with any person, her beauty overpowered anything his instincts were trying to tell him. 

He gave her back her necklace, finally, and she kissed the corner of his mouth. 

Lance’s heart was a cup of water, and with every moment of attention Allura gave him, it overflowed. 

She told him as much, in between kisses, in between touches. Something she whispered before she pushed him back onto the bed he occupied in her house, and Lance was helplessly entranced by the fall of her petticoats to understand the meaning. 

Nyma, who existed in the house as a spirit specifically to bother him, who was also the maid and another valued member of the Duchess’ household, knew of the affair. 

He didn’t mind, mostly. If Allura trusted her, so should he, right? And when Nyma gave him an impish grin he was supposed to simply greet her and be on his way, right? Or should he stop next to her when she takes his arm. Should he listen to her when she tells him: “No good will come from getting involved with her.” Should he freeze, and shiver, and listen when she leans in to whisper in his ear and says:  _ “Me, on the other hand.” _

Should he step back, not look her in the eye and say “Good day, Nyma,” and leave?

What does Nyma know, anyway. 

It did not matter. 

He greeted the Duchess with a bow and a bright smile, and she gave him one back before she climbed into the carriage. She visited Daibazaal Hospital that day, a place Lance only heard of in passing. 

He’d never truly known what kind of facility it was, one of the perks of being the Duchess’ guard was seeing places he wouldn’t have the chance to previously. Even if it was the outside of a convent turned hospital. 

It was a barren place.

A strange man with a pipe approached him and spoke unprompted, as if he’d noticed Lance was lonely. As if the man himself was lonely. 

“Horrible, that place is,” he’d said, taking in a long drag from his pipe. 

“The hospital?” Lance asked, confused. Even though the outside gardens seemed absolutely dreadful, it should have been a place of healing. 

If laughter were fire, then the only thing the man let out was smoke. “That’s the furthest thing from a hospital, boy. They  _ make _ you sick in there,” the man scowled, but Lance was barely paying attention anymore for the Duchess had exited the building. “Horrible, what they do to those girls,” the man said, wandering off. 

It did not matter.

The only thing that mattered was the Duchess and the troubled expression on her face. He opened the door for her, but she paid him no heed. Lance’s heart broke for the Duchess, whatever she’d seen must have truly been horrible. He would make sure to bring her her favorite tea in the evening, whatever he could do to help.

Anything he could do to help. 

Anything. 

Anything she wanted. He would be anything she wanted. 

He realized, pinned between the mattress and the Duchess, that it wasn’t even a scary thought. Her soldier, her darling, her guard,  _ hers. _

“ _ Allura _ ,” he sighed, her name was like an ember, a fire, a gasp from his lungs. A prayer on a sinner’s lips. And that’s when he recognized that beneath the aristocratic rose perfume, Allura smelled like a narrowly avoided funeral pyre.

The next day he could barely conceal the fact that he had trouble walking. Mercifully, he was off duty and found a letter waiting for him at the boarding house.

He recognized his sister’s script, his father’s words, his mother’s tears where the ink smeared. He recognized the smell of home, and for a painstakingly long moment, he stared at the letter without reading it, just letting the comforting feeling of home rest over him as a heavy blanket. He wiped away a tear and started to read. 

The letter was a kiss on the cheek, a pat on the back, an embrace around his legs from his brother’s three-year-old child. They missed him, and he could feel his mother’s pleas for him to write. And never one to disappoint his mother, Lance picked up a quill and started writing a reply almost immediately. 

Where his family spoke of the farm and bakery, he spoke of the city and his own job. Where they spoke of neighbors he spoke of friends. Where they spoke of his cousin’s engagement, he spoke of Allura. He wrote in a passage that was just for his mother—because his sister liked to snoop around his love life and this really didn’t interest his brother—of Allura’s beauty and her grace. Allura’s kindness and her gentleness and the way Lance’s heart yearned for her like it never did for anybody else. 

He didn’t tell his mother he would follow the Duchess to the end of the world as long as she was holding his hand, but it was there, between the realms of ink and paper. 

In the letter, he sent all the love the postage would cover, and then on love’s light wings he was off to the post office, where not even the grumpy clerk and storm clouds would dampen his mood.

If love was a gift, Lance was a king on his wedding day. So much love he didn’t know what to do with it. 

He wasn’t surprised when Allura called on him that evening, but nevertheless, he smiled. It had barely been a couple of hours and he’d already missed her, and there was no doubt inside his mind that she’d missed him, too. Perhaps he’d gotten a bit too comfortable with the Duchess, but you must forgive him, he’s fallen in love. 

He held her in his arms, running a hand through her long, snow-white hair. The moonlight dripped in through the window, illuminating the corners of the room where their clothes lay abandoned. Lance debated moving because he shouldn’t allow them to be caught like this. The most powerful woman in the city entangled with a lowly guard. Powerful Allura, who glittered like gold even without jewelry. Even bare, only human, only flesh and blood, she was something more. Light captured on earth, a goddess reborn, beauty like gold, spun into perfection. 

And it was Lance she paid her attention to.

“I think I might be in love with you,” he whispered, knowing only the moon would remember his confession, for Allura was already asleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> like realistically it's been a few weeks in the story and it makes sense for lance to fall in love so quickly but
> 
> i realized he barely knew her in chapter 4 and here we are, chap 5, already in love


	6. cherry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance should be used to waking up alone after a week, but he still forgets his cot at the boarding house isn’t Allura’s bed and feels like crying in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> double update time

We compare love to death, because it feels like the end of the world.

Lance’s love for Allura was always meant to die, like a moth entranced flying directly into fire. Can you forgive him? Can he forgive himself? He broke his own heart running after a girl, too blind to see she’d never turned to face him. 

She was brighter than any flame, outshining the world around him, blinding him to the point he didn’t notice he was burning until it was too late.

####  **part six point two**

Lance woke up alone the next day.

He was alone in Allura’s townhouse, the only thing left as evidence that she’d ever been there was a bowl of cherries in the foyer. No note, no commotion, they’d left so swiftly and quietly that Lance had slept through it. 

He’d woken at his usual time, so it wasn’t an issue of him sleeping in. 

It was the simple fact that the Duchess had moved back to her manor without caring to even say goodbye to him. She’d left him alone in that house with only the echo of her presence to keep him company, and he obviously couldn’t reside here for long. Who knew when she’d be back, who knew whether or not she wanted to see Lance ever again. 

Lance quietly collected the fruit from the bowl, ignoring the sound of his own heart breaking, the shattered parts dropping like cherries to the floor.

####  **part six point three**

The cherries were sour.

####  **part six point five**

Lance should be used to waking up alone after a week, but he still forgets his cot at the boarding house isn’t Allura’s bed and feels like crying in the morning. 

Heartbreak is manageable to some extent, but sometimes he’ll see a lock of white hair, a pink bow, he’ll hear laughter and think of her, and then it’s back to putting his heart back together again.

####  **part six point nine**

Lance still doesn’t know what he’s done wrong, but he’s prepared to ask for Allura’s forgiveness. 

That, and his superior ordered him to get back in shape before  _ he _ got Lance back to his home village. 

So he bought roses from the hothouse and then made his way up the hill to beg Allura for mercy on his heart. Lance knew which shortcuts to take, which ones were safe and which ones were partial to have slippery mud and morals. 

He’d heard as much from his mother, who’d sent him a letter recently asking for word of him. When Lance asked the post office the clerk had shrugged and suggested it might have been thieves.

“What good would a personal letter bring them?”

“Well, they kill our driver and knock ‘im and the papers into the river to hide the evidence,” the clerk had answered, and Lance had been horrified at his nonchalance. 

This was the reason Lance had wanted to be a knight. He wanted to help people—messengers and bandits alike. There must be a good reason for a person to turn to crime, Lance doubted people did it to be cruel. But perhaps Lance was a bit naive, he didn’t believe any person was born evil, society must have wronged them in some way to make them lash out their anger.

Either way, he’d written another letter for his family, this time excluding any mention of Allura. It’s best he didn’t worry them with his petty heartbreak, besides, if everything went well, his entire breakup with Allura would be a funny story for them to tell to their grandchildren.

The menacing doors of Allura’s manor stood in front of him and stared through his soul. He wasn’t ready. This was a horrible idea. He was going to make a  _ fool  _ of himself bringing wilting roses to an immortal goddess of a woman. 

Perhaps it wasn’t too late to turn around.

Lance would come back another day. Try again when he had more courage,  _ that _ would surely make their grandkids laugh, wouldn’t it? That was it, for the sake of making his future grandchildren laugh, he would turn around now and—

The front door creaked open. 

Lance had believed he’d seen the height of beauty in Allura, in her snow white hair and eyes the color of a winter’s dawn, but he was wrong. Here was someone who rivaled her, or rather, complimented her. 

The man’s hair was also white, like powdered sugar, and his eyes were the color of twilight. His smile was soft at first, Lance believed. Something you would train yourself into doing when welcoming guests, but then it became pointed, brighter, and Lance was surprised when he felt himself blush. 

“Good afternoon, to whom do I owe the pleasure?” Even the man’s voice was elegant and smooth, like expensive silk and other materials Allura had her dresses made out of. 

_ That _ made him snap out of it. His heart pulling on its bandages as it beat against his ribcage. Lance held the flowers a bit tighter in his hands. 

“Good afternoon,” he managed through his nerves. “I’m here to see the Duchess.”

The man smirked. “Aren’t we all,” he said under his breath, probably thinking Lance wouldn’t hear. People did that often. “Ah, I think Lady Luck must have failed us both, then, the Duchess is out for the day. Busy helping orphans probably.”

“Wh-what?” Lance stuttered, surprised by the man’s boldness. No one spoke of the Duchess in such a brash way. Then again, Lance himself had been so forward as to carry a bouquet of roses up the hill just to see Allura in person, perhaps  _ he _ was the shameless one. 

“Nobody’s sure when she’ll be back, though as her distant cousin, I of course have free reign of the house,” the stranger’s grin was almost wolfish. “And you’ve already made it up this far, would be a shame to go home empty handed. May I interest you in a cup of tea, sir…?”

“Lance, of the Serrano family, and that won’t be necessary sir—” Lance shook his head, but apparently the stranger hadn’t heard the last part of his sentence.

“Ah, a highlander? You must be from up north then, right?” the stranger opened the door behind him wider.

Lance was stunned for a moment. People rarely recognized his last name, let alone where it came from. Even Allura didn’t bat an eye when he’d said it, however she might have been drunk at the time, so who knows if she even remembered Lance’s last name. 

Lance looked at the strange man again. 

There was an easy confidence about him, someone regal yet approachable. None of the divinity that Allura carried, no. But the same intelligence, the same spark in his eyes, like a stolen piece of sunlight. 

“Well then, sir Lance, won’t you join me for tea?” the man offered his hand, and Lance took it.

Lance gave him a smile, the best his honest broken heart could offer. “I believe there is something you owe me however,” he said as he let himself be led through the manor.

“Oh?” The man raised an eyebrow as they reached a parlor room. 

“A name, your grace,” Lance answered, using what he hoped was the proper title for the Duchess’ cousin. “ _ Your _ name,” he emphasized, if only to make the man smile. He seemed to like talking about himself. 

“Lotor, my name is Lotor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope u liked it! wish me luck in my exams!


	7. swords and roses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance’s laugh echoed amongst the swords.

Lotor was everything Allura wasn’t. Lance didn’t realize he was looking for a replacement until it was too late. 

Can you forgive him for being affectionate? Can you forgive him for needing love and accepting it from all the wrong places?

His bouquet of roses found its home in Lotor’s glass vase instead of Allura’s.

Lance liked Lotor. He enjoyed the man’s company extremely. He enjoyed Lotor’s taste in tea. He enjoyed the way Lotor took interest in him. He enjoyed how Lotor complimented him and the way he implied Lance was a knight already. 

“Not yet,” he’d answered, not knowing where the confidence came from, and not willing to question it. 

Lotor complimented the craftsmanship of Lance’s sword, and Lance finally had the opportunity to gush about his friend who’s a blacksmith. 

“Oh? Hm, I might commission a blade from Mister Garrett myself then, if he’s as good as you say,” and Lance’s own blood had betrayed him as it rushed up his neck and into his cheeks when Lotor winked at him. 

“They’re truly works of art,” Lance had added, not knowing what to say. 

“I agree, I have quite the extensive sword collection myself,” Lotor wasn’t afraid to brag. He seemed like the man who’d say it would be a  _ shame _ not to take pride when one owned beautiful things. “I don’t usually do this, but would you like to see it sir Lance?” 

Lance could have swooned. 

As they entered the ‘Gallery of Blades’ as Lotor had lovingly dubbed it, Lance’s breath hitched. 

The beauty of humans didn’t hold a candle to the beauty of a well crafted blade. You could tease Lance as much as you wanted (his siblings had already done so), but he’d stand by that fact. A piece of metal, loved enough to be crafted into someone’s weapon. It took time and patience to create the perfect sword, it took  _ love. _ To cherish something enough to turn it into a thing of destruction. An object that can bring peace just as swiftly as it can bring war. Duality was nothing other than a perfectly polished double-edged sword, poetry made metal.

In the end, Lance couldn’t say anything other than: “How many are there?” 

He didn’t know Lotor that well yet, he didn’t want to embarrass himself by gushing about swords too much immediately after they’d met. 

“Well, I’ve lost count,” Lance  _ heard _ rather than saw the grin in Lotor’s words. “But there are definitely more here than in the Tower,” he caught Lotor’s smirk in the reflection of an exceptionally polished blade.

Lance’s laugh echoed amongst the swords.

The duke showed him his favorite weapon first, a beautiful long sword with an amethyst on the pummel and a simply breathtaking but dangerous silver snake coiling around the cross-guard. Lance had leaned in to inspect the blade further, the scratches around the edges and the surprisingly smooth middle-part. As if something engraved had been polished off of it. 

But before Lance could inquire further, Lotor was already turning him to show him other notable specimens. Swords that were over one hundred years old and some who travelled far off distances only to sit in a Noblewoman’s manor. 

Lance had sighed. 

“If I ever do make it into the Tower, their armoury will sorely disappoint,” he’d chuckled, but of course, the armoury was not his concern. His doubts over becoming a knight were volatile and had recently been coming up to the surface more and more. 

“You’re not an apprentice?” Lotor had asked, appearing all of a sudden over Lance’s shoulder. He turned, slowly, and then those twilight eyes were upon him again, filling him with hope nonetheless. 

“Not… yet,” he answered, deciding to try being bold instead of meek. 

The smirk that danced over Lotor’s lips was knowing, and Lance was surprised he’d caught himself staring at it. He kept forgetting Lotor was taller than him. It didn’t happen often. 

“I’ve visited there quite a few times you know, I believe the institution of the Tower would be absolutely delighted to have such a strong and dedicated young man like you as one of its apprentices,” Lance couldn’t imagine anything other than a smile on Lotor’s face anymore. 

“You flatter me,” Lance had turned his face, but Lotor was quick to catch him. With Lance’s chin between his thumb and index finger, Lotor tilted Lance’s face to look up at him. 

“My  _ acquaintances _ at the Tower would  _ love _ to meet you,” Lotor’s voice was almost a whisper, his eyes hooded as he looked down at Lance whose heart kicked into a gallop. 

Lance was afraid hope might pour dancing and singing out of his chest, but fortunately for him, the wall he was pressed against served to ground him. He let some of that previous confidence fill his voice as he spoke. 

“So you’ll introduce us?”

Lotor seemed entertained by that. 

He pulled away, leaving Lance alone with his rushing heart and lonely lips. 

“I’ll see what I can do,” and there, in the silver blade whose pummel was decorated by red wild roses, Lance caught the edge of a hunter’s grin on Lotor’s face.

~

Allura sighed.

She could sense a disturbance growing in her garden, it came in the form of a snake slithering in through the gates, beneath the main entrance and up the stairs, only to wrap itself around her neck and bite at her ear.

_ Lotor _ .

The man was a mistake, she must admit. He was far more trouble than he was worth at the best of times, and an absolute  _ mess _ at the worst. But she’d made a promise forty years ago. She could wait another three decades until it was socially acceptable to break it. 

She stood up and moved from her desk to sit at her window, adjusting her skirts and craning her neck just so. She didn’t have to check her hair or her face, she already knew it looked perfect. She’d  _ learned _ to be perfect.

Every moment, every breath, every sight of her would be nothing less than a marvelous painting. She made sure of it.

Allura watched Lance leave the manor, a jump to his step that wasn’t there when she’d watch him arrive with his silly bouquet. Allura sighed again, feeling her brows furrow—nothing more than a muscle memory—and then the doors to her Eden opened.

“Your  _ grace _ ,” the snake taunted, and Allura made the conscious effort to wipe any emotion from her face. 

Of course, that didn’t work with Lotor. He knew her too well.

He walked up behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders. She let him, of course, she knew he meant no ill-intent. The man was touch-starved, but so were all vampires.

“You seem stressed,  _ cousin _ ,” she saw his grin reflected in the window and tilted her head, letting him bite her ear. 

“I don’t like it when you play with my toys, Lotor. Especially not with ones so soft.” 

Because that was the truth of the situation, Lance was nothing but a plaything. A quick source of blood. He meant nothing to her, and she wasn’t planning on making things more complicated by continuing to sleep with him after he fell in love with her.

Allura never used enchantments or anything similar to make people want to sleep with her. She was talented enough to charm  _ anyone _ ’s clothes off, thank you. The problem came when they fell in love, not with Allura, but with the  _ idea  _ of her that they’d conjured up themselves. 

But Lotor didn’t have that kind of foresight. 

“Oh? He didn’t seem soft to me at all. So  _ strong _ , and  _ muscled _ and,” he squeezed her shoulder for emphasis, and she felt him shudder, “filled with blood.”

Allura slapped his hands away and slowly stood up.

“You know what I mean,” she dusted off imaginary dirt from her dress and looked down at Lotor. “He will not be able to get over you, that one. His love is like a weed,” Allura frowned, the emotion sincere this time. “I barely kissed him, and here he is at my door ready to ask for my hand in marriage.”

Allura could not admit it at the time, but a part of her  _ was _ concerned for Lance. It wasn’t anything close to caring, of course, but it was there. Just as one might frown if they heard someone had passed, Allura didn’t wish anything evil onto the boy.

However, he was still just a boy. Bound to be less than a footnote in the grand history of the world, a speck of dust on a dress, there and gone. Allura was afraid to blink sometimes, she feared how much time would pass while the world was dark around her.

Lotor had none of that fear. He was still considered a young vampire, filled with bloodlust and hubris.

“Oh, we  _ both  _ know you did more than kiss,” he smirked, and she simply raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. 

Lotor rolled his eyes. “I’m  _ simply _ stating that he  _ seems _ as if he’d be a lot of fun to play with. Mayhaps even more fun to turn. Have you sensed it on him?” he asked, idly walking around Allura’s office, pretending as if speaking of death didn’t scare him anymore. 

Allura let her brows furrow as she stalked to her chair, slapping Lotor’s hands away from her most recent chemical research. “Death is his shadow,” she said as she took her seat at her great mahogany desk. Ever the perfect painting. “He won’t live to see his thirties, if I’m correct.” 

"Exactly the reason to turn him! Why  _ not  _ point the middle finger at death?! We do it every day already, but imagine the feeling of looking death in the eyes and ripping this boy out of his embrace!” Lotor, ever the performer, stood across from her with his hands outstretched. A bird ready to take flight, and Lotor’s wild ideas, up to the gods.

Allura sighed.

Two decades.  _ After  _ that it’ll be socially acceptable to throw Lotor out with the trash.

“Don’t you have enough toys to play with?” she countered, letting her annoyance show, letting him know she’d throw him out of a closed window if he didn’t leave within two minutes. She’d done it before.

He grinned, taking his cue to leave. But as he stood before her door, fingertips barely hovering above the door handle, he sent her a rare contemplative smile. “This one is special,” he said and finally, left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honey, you're familiar  
> like my mirror years ago  
> idealism, sits in prison  
> chivalry fell on its sword  
> innocence died screaming  
> honey ask me, i should know  
> i slithered here from eden,   
> just to sit outside your door


	8. a dream, a nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance dreams in black and white and red

_ It was dark.  _

_ The gray floor stretched as far into the misty black fog as he could see. Which wasn’t that far. And then it was. _

_ Then there was Rachel, kneeling, her skirt pooling around her like a rose turned upside down. And then she was Isabella, sobbing, a child Lance on her lap, begging her to tell him that story of the knight again.  _

_ Lance—the real Lance, the one watching it all, wanted to scold childish Lance for bothering Isabella.  _ ‘Can’t you see she’s crying?’  _ He wanted to shout, but his voice was stolen, his voice was in the air, his voice was a necklace wrapping itself around his brother’s wife. _

_ Then child Lance disappeared from her lap, and she was no longer Isabella.  _

_ It was Nyma in the dark, crying on the townhouse floor. Instead of a red dress, cherries were scattered around her, she was in her maid uniform but it hung off her as if she were a clothing hanger.  _

_ “Nyma?” His voice was back, but it wasn’t his voice, it was a child’s voice.  _

_ Nyma looked up at him, her hollow gaunt gray face like nothing he had ever seen in his life. The hands she was sobbing into were bone thin, and Death seemed to have drained her completely. She moved her hair, showing off two puncture wounds on her neck. _

_ “You’re better off with the living Lance.” _

_ And suddenly he was in her place, tattered clothes and rotten fruit around him. He looked up, and there was Allura in a garden wearing a long flowy white dress, the sun shining behind her. She smiled and offered him a hand.  _

_ His clothes fell apart into flower petals that were scattered by the wind. Allura was holding his hand and looking up at him with reverence in her eyes. But it wasn’t reverence, no, it was  _ hunger _. She smiled and revealed a mouth full of sharp teeth, and before he could object she sunk them into his neck.  _

_ He cried out but couldn’t feel anything.  _

_ When Allura leaned back, it was no longer dawn and no longer the flowerfield. It was twilight, it was the forest, it was Lotor with blood running down his chin. _

_ “I love you, Lance.” _

_ The words seemed like a curse.  _

~

Lance woke up alone, his nightmare scuttling away like a rat on a busy street in the early morning. He couldn’t remember anything that happened in it, and part of him was glad of it. Some dreams were best left unseen, unfinished, unfulfilled. 

There was commotion in town about Lord Sendak being corrupt and rotten, but everyone already knew that. It was an unsaid rule that all lords were corrupt, the people only didn’t know in what way. In Lord Sendak’s case, it was a rather complicated case of theft, but it was theft nonetheless. 

The Duchess had found evidence that Lady Romelle of House Arus was still alive, and that Lord Sendak’s mysterious rise to power wasn’t that mysterious after all. He’d married Romelle, who was only seventeen at the time, and took all of her inheritance and locked her up in Daibazaal hospital. The young lady was perfectly healthy and sane, but as her legal husband, he had the means to proclaim her hysterical and cross out Romelle from history.

The Duchess, Lance had also heard, had moved most if not all patients from Daibazaal hospital to her own residence until she could have the place inspected for more false diagnosis. Perhaps Lotor was right: Allura  _ was _ busy helping orphans.

But Lance had bigger things to worry about. His relocation to the Tower, for one. 

He couldn’t believe it, but Lotor had kept his word, no matter how vague it was. Lance had received a letter inviting him to join the Tower’s knight training—a reply to a request Lance had never  _ officially _ sent, but Lance wasn’t one to slap away a helping hand. 

There was only the matter of meeting with his Head Guard over the relocation, but Lance had no doubt in his mind it would go smoothly. 

He gulped and knocked twice at the door before entering.

“You know, I hate those bastards, why’d you apply to apprentice under them, boy?” the Head Guard said as a way of greeting, and Lance stood alert as he closed the door behind him. His superior gave him a once over, his moustache twitching as if in disapproval. The Head Guard was somewhat of a father figure to many of the new grunts. Where those who trained them yelled at them and constantly berated them, the Head Guard came as a calm and yet disappointed figure. 

Lance doubted there  _ was _ a way to satisfy the Head Guard, but a part of him knew the man was proud of Lance anyway. 

He sighed and sat down at his desk, eyes glancing over the papers before he moved him to the side. “Shame you couldn’t have picked a better time. I’ve been dealing with a few odd disappearances in town lately, and you’re our best hunter,” he said off-handedly, but now he’d caught Lance’s attention. Lance hadn’t heard anything about any disappearances since the only gossip he caught was Sendak and his wife.

“I could- I could stay and help, sir-” he tried, but his Head Guard waved him off.

“Don’t worry about it, it’s most likely a couple drunks afraid to go home to their wives,” the man cackled, but Lance caught the worrying glance directed at the papers—profiles of the missing persons, probably. Lance couldn’t fathom the idea of hiding from people you love. Of hiding from people who love  _ you.  _ “You think you’re my only tracker, Serrano? Aye, look at yourself, blushing from ear to ear like a scolded maiden. Go, chase those dreams you’re after! Don’t let a couple of lost drunks stop you,” he smiled, and Lance gave him a nod, excusing himself before he left the office.

The Head Guard was right. It would all be fine.

Lance had nothing to worry about. 

~

Lance woke up with rose petals dancing around in his mind, but he didn’t have the time to dwell on his nightmare. Training at the Tower started early in the morning, and he wanted to have enough time to chat with his new friends at breakfast. He rushed to get ready and met Ryan and James in the hallway, the three of them all headed to the breakfast halls.

It turned out Lance was a passable archer, but was  _ embarrassingly _ bad at swordplay. He’s glad he never took up Lotor on that offer to spar that day. No matter, he was determined to train and learn. English history would remember him as one of the greatest knights yet.

James and Leifsdottir teased him about it  _ relentlessly _ , but Ryan only ever offered him an encouraging smile.

Yes, he liked it at the Tower, very much so.

~

Lance dreamed of his sister-in-law, her tears an endless silver river.

He usually used his Sundays to train and better his swordplay, but the nightmare had left him disturbed. He’d known Isabella since he was a child—his brother had gotten married when Lance was about ten—she was famous in their little village for telling stories to children and keeping them safe and busy. Lance always adored her stories, tales of strong knights and dangerous dragons. Of brave princesses and foolish kings. Of firebirds illuminating stormy nights and golden roses that could cure any disease.

Her stories became sweeter and softer when she had children of her own, but it was Isabella who taught Lance to be brave. 

He wrote her and his brother a letter asking how they fared. He wrote another one to his mother telling her he’d finally joined the Tower, but that it meant he couldn’t come visit till Christmas and that he’d missed them all terribly. 

Lance knew very well his family would be too busy in summer to come visit him, but he could still hope. Until then, all he could do was spend his Sundays writing and reading letters, walking from the Tower to the post office to meet wherever Lotor had planned for that day.

Summer was a kind lover when Lance wasn’t looking. The wind carried the scent of wildflowers and rustled the bright green leaves. It was warm, but training was still manageable—no one wore full armour, and most of the recruits barely wore shirts. Lance didn’t mind. 

When he wasn’t training and it wasn’t a Sunday Lance helped in the fields because it reminded him of home. Wheat turning gold before his eyes. 

And then Lotor came, a serving of cold water on a hot summer’s day, and they spent the day talking and sparring. Lotor never brought the same sword to their matches, insisted that it’s better for Lance to train like this, he never knew what weapon the enemy would carry, and Lance humoured him. 

Charmed would have been a word for it.

“Head over heels for a lass that probably won’t even look at him,” is what Nadia loved to say.

~

Lance couldn’t remember Nyma’s face. The only thing his mind conjured up was what his nightmares showed him—sunken eyes, gaunt face, skin and bones and a too-pale complexion. 

He thought to ask Lotor about her. He kept it on his mind the entire day, through his meals, through training, through talking with Nadia and James, but he was so tired when the sun set, you see. It isn’t easy studying at the Tower, and the days stretch warm and hot and training becomes unbearable the further into summer they get.

And seeing Lotor was such a sweet relief that the thought of asking about Nyma all but faded into his unconsciousness. They met near the river that evening, and Lotor smiled at him—something gentle, reserved specifically for Lance, he’d learned—and his focus slipped. In the shade of a great oak tree, Lance forgot about his nightmares and his fatigue and kissed Lotor for the first time.

And the second.

And the third.

It’s intoxicating, it’s addictive. 

Lotor held him tenderly, as if he were a doll that might break rather than a knight-to-be, and kissed him so lovingly, so gently. Lance didn’t know kisses could be so sweet.

The wind rustled the leaves of the trees, but even that was not enough to bring Lance back to earth. There was only Lotor, in front of him. Lotor, with soft, tantalizing lips. Lotor, with his hands around Lance’s waist, pulling him ever closer.

Moonlight glinted off of Lotor’s blade discarded in the grass, amethyst and abandonment glittering ignored over the soft sighs and softer kisses of two lovers beneath the oak tree.

And that’s how Lance’s summer passed, with intoxicating kisses and the restless pursuit of knighthood—both so draining that he never dreamt, and he forgot about his nightmares altogether. 

Summer was a kind lover indeed, but as with all lovers, it came time for it to leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> almost posted this with bits of my outline still in it, i'm so sorry for the delay, two days after exams were done it was spontaneously decided we were moving, and like, man, i don't even WANT to know how much paperwork and physical work i've done in the last 3 weeks and it's not even done


	9. love is a forest fire

Allura’s taste in mansions was impeccable, if not a few years out of date, but Lotor wouldn’t complain. He had the good sense to respect the Vampire Queen—to the degree he was capable of. 

Though her taste in bedsheets left something to desire. The shade of silk made spilled blood look terrible, and  _ was she not aware he was a messy eater?! _

He rolled his eyes and tried to focus instead on the woman that the blood came from.

Lotor wouldn’t call Nyma pretty. Rather, he would call her sufficient. 

Good enough until Lance felt comfortable to follow Lotor into the darkness of his bedroom. He grinned at the thought. He could already taste the man’s skin, his hungry lips and eager tongue. Oh how he wished he was the one laying beside him now, instead of  _ Nyma _ . 

It was hard to ignore her when she was right in front of him.

And truly, she wasn’t ugly, she was just drained. Which was to be expected between him and Allura—they had  _ needs _ , after all. But Nyma would make such an ugly corpse. It wouldn’t take much, Lotor doubted she would survive another feeding. He wondered if he should be the one to kill her.

He stared, unfeeling.

All of her youth and life drained.

He could do it right now, if he wanted. It wouldn’t even take long. 

A minute. Perhaps two. And she would be an empty husk, not even human, not even a corpse. Just a husk. Just drained.

Hideous. 

He dragged a finger over her bare neck, marvelling at how quickly vampire saliva healed human skin, marvelling at the blood smeared there. How much she had already lost, and how much he could still take from her. 

Lotor dragged that finger down to her collarbone, drawing the vague shape of a sword.

He sighed. He wouldn’t be this bored if she were Lance. 

She was awake with a snap of his fingers—a handy trick if one wanted to draw blood for a short moment—and smiled at him.

She had the audacity to smile at him. 

“Good morning, Lotor,” he withheld his disgust. 

“Has it been that long?” he didn’t know, truthfully. The movements of the sun didn’t interest him for the most part, the daylight cycle belonged to mortals. Nyma shrugged and stretched, her actions mimicking a disinterested cat. 

Perhaps they had more in common than he thought. 

“I have a proposition for you,” he said, and she looked at him with a coy smile. Her eyelids were still heavy with the remnants of enchantment, her long black lashes fluttering against her pale cheeks. 

Oh, what a hideous corpse she would make. 

“Are you going to ask for my hand in marriage now, Lotor?” Despite her nonchalant appearance, Lotor could hear her heartbeats speed up. Too many men, he guessed, too many had proposed marriage only to break her heart, or her ribs. He heard how they rattled when her breaths caught—ghosts of pain and heartbreak. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, and heard the little sigh of relief she didn’t want him to know about. Then again, seeing a woman run away naked through the manor gardens would be  _ highly _ entertaining. “I have,” and he paused to smirk, revelling in the anticipation in her eyes, “A proposition as sweet as life itself.” 

He waited for intrigue to blossom in her eyes, he waited for her interest to grow. He waited—for confusion, for hope, for everything that infects humans when they sense the tidal wave of change coming for their lives. 

Instead, the only thing he saw in Nyma was disagreement and disappointment. 

Instead, she said, “My lord, life is bitter.” 

  
  
  
  


Nyma ended up accepting his offer anyway.

What were humans if not desperate little creatures, constantly grasping for the faintest hint of power, of strength, of  _ immortality _ ? 

Lotor found humanity’s predictability endearing. But he was never a guardian, the only thing he wanted to protect was his own integrity. His own moral code was  _ much _ different than any of a regular human’s though. 

He was immortal, after all. Those with no end to their lives existed differently. Gone was the desire to  _ do _ something with their lives—there was no boundary, no finish line where their achievements would be tallied. It was just them on the Earth, existing through thievery and darkness. 

One could spend centuries pondering the absurdity of a vampire’s existence. The soul of a human, the lifespan of a god. All fueled by the appetite of a monster. Millenia, Lotor is sure. But he had better ideas.

While Nyma writhed through the transformation ritual, he strolled through the bustling town Allura had made. Another one of her pity projects, creating something useful out of something dying. Lotor even dared to stroll through the marketplace, where he knew Allura had gone out to today. He even dared to get close enough to catch a glimpse of the woman standing next to her. 

_ ‘Still shy,’ _ he thought to himself. It was plain to him that the strange woman was the object of his Queen’s affections, she was but so terribly  _ shy _ . The woman turned, and he caught her eye—for a moment, Lotor could see it. He could see the vast night sky and howling wolves and the bitten golden apple—he could see all the reasons why the woman was worth it, but the thought disappeared as soon as it had crossed his mind. Before he could think more of it, he saw Allura begin to move, and disappeared before she could see him. 

He wouldn’t dare get caught by her. 

His only crime that day was stealing away to see his Lance instead of staying and watching over Nyma’s transformation. But with the way his lover moved, Lotor reckoned that leaving heaven would be worth it for just the view. 

Lotor waited a few moments in the shadow of the ruined arena—soulless remnants leftover after Allura had the new one built—and took in the sight before him. Light poured in just to kiss Lance’s tan skin, and the sweat on his chest resembled honeyed nectar and liquid gold. But his face. Oh, his face, it always made shivers run down Lotor’s spine when he saw Lance’s blue eyes shift to icy focus. His furrowed brow, his mouth slightly ajar—the man’s entire existence spelled out  _ ‘temptation’ _ for Lotor. 

And he was always one to indulge. 

“You started without me,” Lotor hadn’t waited, he wouldn’t bother. 

Instead of stopping Lance for a civilized greeting, Lotor had unsheathed one of the blades from his back and parried Lance’s next strike. 

Instead of stopping Lotor for a civilized greeting, Lance swiftly jumped back and was ready on the offensive again. His grin was wolfish, excited. 

How Lotor enjoyed him. 

In order to not be backed into the wall he’d just jumped down from, Lotor went on the offensive immediately. It was more his style, and the vast space of the arena allowed him to do so. Despite most of the seats being broken or having landed in someone’s room as a prized trophy, the battle area of the arena was mostly intact, and that was what Lotor needed from his surroundings. 

Strike— parry— strike— parry. 

Lotor focused on the beautiful man in front of him. Lance was getting better—for the most part, he could match Lotor for every move, and it made his heart flutter. How marvelous humans were, and their keenness to improve! Parts of Lance were nearly unrecognizable from the lanky guard with a bouquet of roses that had appeared on his doorstep. 

_ Parts _ of Lance that Lotor just couldn’t help but admire. 

“Did you  _ know  _ that not wearing armour would help you fight better?” Lotor called, wishing to tease, wishing to test Lance’s concentration. 

“Only against you, your grace,” Lance smirked. He  _ smirked. _

_ ‘Shameless creature. _ ’ Lotor thought to himself, and moved out  _ just _ in time to avoid the speed of Lance’s blade. 

Unabashedly, just like the creature before him, Lotor continued to stare.

And he didn’t stop staring. Strike— parry— stare. He forgot what he was even testing Lance for—his focus? His strength? His stamina? At some point, Lotor threw him the other sword he had prepared—a simple blade with an apple red pommel. It was lighter than the swords they used in the Tower, a challenge, perhaps? A challenge for Lance to see how quickly he could adjust to different weapons. But Lotor had stopped caring about the lesson, he just wanted to see Lance move. 

He made for a pretty awful tutor.

Lance, however, didn’t seem to mind.

Strike— parry— stare.

How beautiful his Lance was, a creature sculpted by the gods themselves to match them—to  _ surpass _ them. Eros, Apollo— _ no one _ was his equal in beauty. No one was his equal in heavenly glory. A creature truly deserving of immortality—Lotor’s personal god of love. 

“ _ Lotor! _ ”

His god of love made mortal. 

“ _ Lotor! _ ” 

Blood splattered on the floor of the arena, mixing in with the red dirt on Lance’s knees.

“Lotor, are you alright?” his lover asked, a hand pressed to the side of his chest. 

The sweet scent of fresh blood filled his lungs, and Lotor slowly looked down. 

There was Lance, there was Lotor’s god, kneeling in front of his feet. 

There was Lance, bleeding at his feet, asking Lotor if  _ he _ was alright. 

Outside, the church bells began to ring high noon. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I won't lie, this was fun to write
> 
> I will stop pretending there is any kind of schedule to this story, instead, I want to thank you all very much for sticking around and reading it, your comments really do make my day, and I'm sorry I am so slow


	10. like whiskey, like flame

His instinct pulled him to the right, even before he saw Lotor’s blade headed for him. 

Lance blamed himself—his broken focus and his inattentiveness—despite a part of him shouting that it’s Lotor’s fault, not his. That it’s Lotor’s scatter-mindedness and dazed state that had him bleeding in the abandoned theatre. 

That small voice drowned in blooming red roses as pain seared across the side of Lance’s ribs, only a few moments away from his beating heart.

“ _ Lotor, _ ” he cried out at the same time his weapon hit the floor. This pain, this inferno… It was not something Lance was used to. It was not something that  _ anyone _ should be used to, but for a moment, he felt so embarrassed that all he could do was clutch where Lotor’s sword had cut his flesh.  _ ‘A weakling,’ _ he scolded himself. It was nothing but a flesh wound, and yet it made him drop to his knees.

“Lotor?” He looked up, refusing to deal with his own struggles with self-worth. “Are you alright?” He added, noting the faraway look in his lover’s dark blue eyes—the cobalt sea of a foreign, distant land. His gaze dropped to the sword Lotor still clutched in his hand, but instead of his shaky grip, Lance’s eyes followed the crawling red as it climbed down the blade.

Somewhere outside of the theater arena, the thought that it was  _ his _ blood that stained the silver weapon echoed, but it couldn’t reach Lance. The only thing that reached into the arena was silence—a force so deafening Lance couldn’t do anything, hear anything. He only felt the pain in his side, he only saw red flowers, blooming from Lotor’s thorn, as blood continued trickling down his skin. 

A drop of blood fell and scattered on the floor like a wild rose’s petals.

Lance hissed in pain, Lotor fell to his knees.

Lotor’s hands were cold against his body as his darling carried him away. Lance ignored this in favour of retreating within himself, balls of cotton surrounding his brain to soften his fall. He felt the solid edge of a wooden table, he felt Lotor’s hands leave him there, but that was about it. 

He saw, as if it were a palpable, solid thing, Lotor’s worry overtake the man, as he ran to and from the room. Lance felt himself smile, felt himself reach out to touch Lotor, him and his fine shirt that cost more than Lance’s entire uniform—including Lance’s sword. And yet Lance wanted to touch it, despite how bloody his hand was. He didn’t feel guilty over ruining something beautiful, he only wanted to touch his love.

“Please, darling, let me look at it,” Lotor took Lance’s hand in both of his soft and gentle ones, slowly bringing Lance back to the room with him.

Lance moved his arm and looked at the wound.

“Your other hand too, darling,” Lotor whispered, putting his hand over Lance’s. 

He felt bad for making nobility tend to him— _ Lance _ was supposed to be the hero.  _ He _ was supposed to be the one to tend wounds, to comfort others, to  _ protect _ people. The weight of his guilt made his hand fall and land on his pants, staining them red as well. 

Lotor took in a sharp breath but said nothing. He took a step back and rummaged around in his bag before pulling out a small glass bottle full of amber liquid. 

“Your grace, is that—”

“Just take a swig of that, it’ll make cleaning the wound much easier,” he said and uncorked the bottle before handing it to Lance. The strong smell of whiskey hit him, burning up all the oxygen in his lungs with it. 

“Your grace, I can’t—This is too expensive to waste on me,” Lance cried, the force of his movements causing him to wince. Ah, right. His cut. 

“Darling,” Lotor gently took the bottle from Lance’s hands and took a swig himself and cringed. “I’d rather have spilled whiskey than you with an infected wound,” he pressed the bottle back into Lance’s hands. “Besides, I’d say you’re worth more than that bottle,” he said in that same worried tone that made Lance want to do anything to reassure him. To make his love stop worrying. 

He doubted he was worth more than the bottle though. 

Still, he took a swig and cringed, liquid fire burning all the way down his throat. He barely felt Lotor take the bottle away from him, which he guessed was the point. The moment he thought he was recovering from the drink, Lance felt the same whiskey burning on his cut as Lotor cleaned it. He winced and hissed, all the while Lotor shushed him, his eyes trained on the cut.

Alcohol met skin again in a burning inferno, and by the time Lance came to, Lotor was already wrapping the bandage across his chest. He couldn’t tell who was shivering- his chest rattling from his shaky breath or Lotor’s hands as he covered the wound. He looked down at his lover, but Lotor’s gaze was glued to the wound- his brow set in a way that made even Lance worry. 

Lotor pressed his fingers to Lance’s skin as if Lance was something precious, something Lotor revered. 

“I’m sure it’s not that deep,” he tried, even mustering a weak smile to reassure his love.

But Lotor only looked at him, worry and melancholy so beautifully painted on his face. He sighed before looking at the bandaged wound again. “This time… but, will it be shallow next time? I do not want to hurt you, Lance,” Lance feels Lotor’s touch—feather light over the bandage. The furrow in his brow so deep set it seemed as if it would never leave. “You’re too precious to me,” Lotor confessed, stealing the breath from Lance’s lungs and replacing it with his own. 

Breathless, almost speechless, Lance blinks—a soft sound in the quiet, dusty room. When has he ever been precious to someone? How long had it been since he felt loved?

“I won’t break that easily,” he whispered, surprised at the strength behind his words. They were true and tried, like iron, like true love. 

He can’t name the emotion in Lotor’s eyes before he’s being kissed, fiercely and passionately. A kind of fire—different from whiskey and yet just as addictive—starting in his heart. His lungs fill with Lotor, his body fills with  _ want _ . The flame in his heart blazing hot and bright, Lance felt his touch could start a forest fire.

He hooked his ankles around Lotor’s hips and pulled him closer, taking pride in the noise that left the taller man’s throat.

Lotor broke the kiss and went straight for Lance’s sensitive neck, making Lance’s desperate attempts at being quiet futile. Lotor pushed him and softly, so softly, lowered him on the table, and Lance could sense his bandage soaking with blood. But Heavens, he couldn’t feel pain. He couldn’t feel anything but Lotor pressed against his hips, Lotor’s fingers in his hair, Lotor’s lips on his neck

He couldn’t help it, he moved his hips for friction. 

Lotor moaned, and Lance felt like he’d heard heaven sing to him, he felt as if he’d heard a siren’s alluring song, and he was ready to follow that voice to the ends of the earth. 

He was about to do it again, chase the high Lotor’s voice teased him with, when Lotor stopped him. He looked up from where he’d surely left a love bite on Lance’s neck and caressed his face, running his fingers over Lance’s red lips. 

“Not here, not now,” Lotor gave him a kiss and moved to whisper in his ear, making shivers run down Lance’s spine. “When I first take you, darling,” he purred, “it will be in silk.”

Lance blushed despite himself, blood rushing to his cheeks and to soak his bandage. Lotor stood up straight and looked at him, and Lance ignored how vulnerable he felt in front of the man. 

“Now let’s change your bandage again.”   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry dudes i moved houses started a semester and got covid -19  
> it still feels like may in my head


End file.
